Jaloux
by BoundInSkin
Summary: All is well in France's world... until that annoying American turns up and starts showing England a little too much affection. FrUK and slight USUK, the summary sucks but the story  hopefully  doesn't.


**France often seems to be portrayed as a sex-crazed maniac (which he probably is) but I wanted to try showing a softer side to him. Hope you enjoy it! Reviews are always appreciated. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

France, known to his friends and (many) admirers as Francis Bonnefoy, was in a good mood. He sauntered down the harshly decorated corridor, pausing only to examine his reflection in the shining surface of an extremely tacky vase, towards meeting room three. There was a figure standing outside the door, facing away from Francis.

They were blonde, and when France got a little closer he recognised the distinctive haircut and slender stature of his son. "Matheiu!" Francis cried, and Canada turned with a slightly sheepish look on his delicate face. "Papa," he replied, his voice soft as always, and let himself be pulled into an enthusiastic hug.

France held Matthew tight to his chest, breathing in his son's subtle maple-syrup smell and letting his soft hair tickle his nose. "Are you well?" Francis asked as he reluctantly released the boy. Matthew's cheeks reddened slightly, as they always did when someone spoke directly to him. France had spent several anxious years worrying that he was responsible for his son's timid nature, but eventually he had realised that even if he was, there was little he could do about it now.

"Yes," Matthew replied, "I was just trying to, you know, work up the courage to go in." He gestured towards the closed door, blushing furiously with embarrassment. France smiled broadly at the younger nation, and put a hand on his thin shoulder. "We'll do it together," he said gently, and pushed open the door.

The room inside was, as always, a throbbing hub of activity. France could see Russia looming over a quaking Latvia as Lithuania and Estonia watched worriedly. Ukraine and Belarus were not far away from their brother. On the other side of the room, Feliciano Vargas was chattering animatedly to Germany, who looked just the tiniest bit bored, whilst Lovino beat off Spain's affections with a shocking variety of swearwords.

Francis smiled at his old friend, shaking his head slightly. Despite Lovino's apparent disgust, Antonio claimed that they were perfect for each other. In the seat next to Germany Prussia was lounging, watching Austria through lazy red eyes. Said musician was sitting a few feet away, looking as proud and haughty as ever, while Hungary waved to Japan on the other side of the room.

Francis's eyes roved, as if by their own accord, towards Sweden and Finland, who were draped over each other in a couple of chairs in the corner. France's smile widened. Expressions of love were always nice. It seemed that the only person in the whole room who was not shouting, laughing or lusting was the quiet man sitting calmly at the end of the table, carefully organising several files.

He looked up, as if he could feel Francis's stare, and nodded curtly at the other nation. France grinned back at England and subconsciously raised a hand to his hair, checking it was in place. Then he carefully made his way through the throng of bodies towards his little oasis of calm.

"Bonjour, Arthur," Francis trilled as he slipped into the seat next to England. The other man looked up, momentarily flustered, and offered him just the hint of a smile. "Hello, frog," he replied, and looked back down at his seemingly endless papers.

Francis stretched out like a cat in his chair and waved lazily at Prussia, who stuck his tongue out at him. France smiled to himself. He was glad that not being an official nation hadn't stopped his friend from being as rude as ever.

The wind shifted slightly, and Francis's attention was brought back to the man beside him as he caught a hint of Arthur's distinctive scent. He smelled of autumn leaves, and rain, and the comfort of home. Francis affectionately ruffled England's already messy hair, and the other nation glared at him. "I'm trying to work," he said pointedly, a threat half-buried beneath his words.

France carefully muffled the chuckle that had risen in his throat, and gave Arthur a wide smile. "Pardon, mon petit lapin," he drawled, just to see that delightful blush rise in Arthur's cheeks.

Finally, England tore his gaze away from the files. "For the last time," he hissed through gritted teeth, "I am not your bloody rabbit." He glared at France for a few moments, until the other nation couldn't stand it any longer, and a chuckle burst out from his throat.

England blinked, momentarily taken aback, then growled dangerously at France. Francis swallowed his laughter and tried his very hardest to look apologetic. He had a feeling it wasn't working particularly well.

England let out a groan of frustration and turned back to his papers. France gazed at him for a few moments, feeling sorry all of a sudden. Why were his emotions acting like this? It was not normal to be jealous of a few files. No-one saw as fingers hand slipped under the table and wrapped themselves around Arthur's hand. England yanked his arm away, irritated, and elbowed France (quite hard) in the ribs.

"Bloody frog," he muttered with a sigh. Francis sat back, slightly put out. But after a few moments his face broke into a broad grin, as small fingers wrapped themselves around his own. "How come," he murmured, dipping his head so that only Arthur could hear him, "I'm not allowed to hold your hand, but you're allowed to hold mine?" England flicked his eyes towards the other man for a moment, flushing almost imperceptibly.

"Because," he muttered, "You hold hands with anyone who'll let you."

They stayed in that position for several minutes, Francis smiling to himself, Arthur flicking through his papers with his left hand and trying to pretend nothing was happening. The slight blush still staining his cheeks was the only clue. Suddenly, the door flew open and Alfred F. Jones strode into the room, grinning broadly and wearing (Francis noted disapprovingly) that awful leather jacket.

His annoyingly bright baby blue eyes roved around the room until the came to rest on Arthur. "Iggy!" America yelled, far too loudly, and Francis suppressed a groan as he bounced towards them.

Francis was absolutely not annoyed by the way Alfred leant casually over Arthur's shoulders. He was absolutely not annoyed by the way he affectionately ruffled Arthur's hair. He was absolutely not annoyed by the way he nuzzled his head against Arthur's neck, almost sitting on the older nation's lap at this point.

But Francis was extremely annoyed by his use of that baffling, vulgar, awful nickname. "For the love of Merlot!" France exploded, "His name is Arthur. Not Iggy, or Iggmiester, or Sir Igg. **Arthur**." He suddenly became aware of how silent the room had fallen, of his position towering over the other two nations, and of Arthur's surprised expression.

Alfred raised an eyebrow (infuriatingly, Francis thought) and crossed his legs nonchalantly. France sat down, trying to fight the blush that was creeping into his cheeks, and tucked a few stray strands of hair behind his ears. Gradually, the noise level in the room rose to the usual racket. "I appreciate your concern, Francis," Arthur said quietly, "And Alfred, he is right. That nickname is bloody appalling." America flushed, and France suppressed a smirk.

"Furthermore," Arthur continued firmly, "Get your own chair. This one is already occupied. I never knew you were so bloody lazy." Alfred slunk off, muttering, "I'm not lazy. Heroes aren't lazy." Francis smiled at his retreating back. But when he turned back to England, the shorter nation was frowning disapprovingly at him. "Is it really worse than _bunny_?" Arthur said pointedly. Francis thought about thinking of a witty reply, but settled instead for draping his arm around the other man's shoulders.

"...so we just need a giant superhero, and the world will be saved!" America finished eagerly. His eyes were bright with enthusiasm, his cheeks flushed slightly with excitement. Francis glanced at Arthur, who was watching his ex-colony speak with an expression of mild interest, and fervently hoped that England didn't think Alfred's blush was in any way cute. A few of the nations clapped politely and America bounded back to his seat on the other side of England.

"What do you think?" he asked eagerly before his bottom had even touched the chair, "It was good, wasn't it?" Francis rolled his eyes and clicked his tongue critically. The stupid kid's idea was not good, it was ridiculous and immature. "It's bloody impossible," Arthur echoed, and Francis couldn't hide his smug smile. Alfred, however, simply elbowed the older man affectionately and replied, "It's not. It's heroic, Iggy."

England gave France a look that clearly said, "Leave it," and Francis reluctantly complied. Japan, on the opposite side of the table, leant towards Arthur and began talking seriously about imports, so France turned away from them. He caught Prussia's eye, and the albino winked rather obviously at him. Francis waved, feeling a rush of affection for his old friend, and Gilbert mimed drinking from a bottle.

"Tonight?" he mouthed, and France paused, unsure. Did he really want to spend another night drowning his sorrows in some dingy bar, only to wake up on the floor with tear-swollen eyes and Arthur's name on his lips? Francis shook his head, and to his credit Prussia only looked disappointed for a moment, before he shrugged nonchalantly and turned away.

A tap on France's shoulder made him turn in his seat. He found himself, to his slight surprise, face to face with an extremely nervous Canada. "I'm going now," his son said so softly Francis wondered if he'd imagined it. He clutched his ever-present polar bear to his chest for security.

Francis gave Matthew an indulgent smile and stood up to embrace him. As he held his son tight to his chest, he glanced over his shoulder and, to his surprise, found Arthur glaring darkly at them.


End file.
